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Selected poems
Bosquet, Alain
- GenresPoetry
189 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1958
19 people want to read
About the author
Alain Bosquet
181 books13 followersAlain Bosquet, born Anatoliy Bisk (Russian: Анато́лий Биск) (28 March 1919 – 17 March 1998), was a French poet.
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Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews
April 27, 2024
Collection of poems by a Ukrainian poet of the 20th century who fled to France after the revolutions of 1917. In France, he Latinised his name from Anatoly Bisk to Alain Bosquet. The poems collected here are extremely varied in theme and style, many taking me multiple readings to understand on a satisfying level. The most interesting poems in here are those where Bosquet reflects over the fact that the culture and society he grew up in effectively ceased to exist after the fall of the Romanov monarchy and the Bolsheviks taking power. After I've started exploring present day Eastern European literature I can gather that authors in former Soviet republics had to deal with that experience for a second time in the 1990's, when the USSR's collapse and the successor republics' transition to market economies once again meaning that most authors in those countries grew up in cultures that no longer exist as they once knew them.
The other poems by Bosquet that I paid most attention to, are those which examine humanity's relationship with the numinous and our attempts to comprehend forces always beyond human understanding by projecting imperfect man-made worldviews upon them. In those, Bosquet ends up creating his own mythology untethered to existing religious traditions. I am always fascinated by authors who do that - see also William Blake, René Daumal and Leonora Carrington for more examples.
If you are interested in Continental European modernist poets that for various reasons are influential on the mainland but never really caught on in the Anglosphere, then Bosquet is worth a look.
The other poems by Bosquet that I paid most attention to, are those which examine humanity's relationship with the numinous and our attempts to comprehend forces always beyond human understanding by projecting imperfect man-made worldviews upon them. In those, Bosquet ends up creating his own mythology untethered to existing religious traditions. I am always fascinated by authors who do that - see also William Blake, René Daumal and Leonora Carrington for more examples.
If you are interested in Continental European modernist poets that for various reasons are influential on the mainland but never really caught on in the Anglosphere, then Bosquet is worth a look.
April 2, 2022
Men or Objects
the basilicas
spread out in quarters
like girls making love
the great marble palaces
spit out their lionesses
on the enemy star
the graveyard
danced and danced
for a week
men changed
into chimneys siphons and ashcans
costumes with no body to clothe
* * * *
Because it is Nude
He marries the brick.
Every penumbra
Is a beloved sister.
He's got confidence in this fish
And argues with him over a new alphabet.
He digs himself a road
Right to the very heart, you might say,
Of this other planet.
Things extremely wicked
Leather belts, no doubt,
Prevent him
From dominating the religious cypresses.
He finds in the rust a crazy song.
* * * *
Fallacy
like a lip on a breast.
Dances of identities:
so many bumble-bees
to dim his clearest look!
He locks his infernos:
he shall sentence no one.
His memory will live
on alcohol, love and gentle panics.
He nurses a charcoal.
The world is so lustful,
with no fear he can reinvent it.
Fallacy, like a breast.
April 20, 2023
Some truly fun and light surrealist poems.
January 23, 2022
In me, civil war.
My orange tree my knees displease;
my cascade rails against my bones;
mine between my hear to choose
and a stabbed island stertorous
in my valise, between my history books
and head crammed with throttled memories.
Mucous membraned Word!
Thing that wouldst be human!
In me, civil war.
*
Fresh sighs for sale!
Prime doubts a penny!
Scowls going at a loss!
When I'm sold out I'll go
far from me and these among
be born again:
a mango warm from the bough,
a more than feline kiss,
a few objects without name.
Fresh hopes for sale!
Prime sooth a penny!
* * *
the universe will roar
I invent a prayer
to beautify you
the universe will bellow
I invent
the cathedral
for your hair
around a mammalian island
the stricken universe will croak
I invent a god
so that after my suicide
you will lick his hands
silence will cover the universe
mystical dragon-fly
* * *
- young feathers
- be simple like your armpit
- heavy column
- be natural like the nape of your neck
- words of the mad snake
- be faithful to your skin to your lip
- refusal of the fermenting blue
- be the friend of your native speech
- mosquito with the tiger's bite
- be your eye be your blood
* * *
- heavy stork
- your eye is a sacrilege
- crawling moon
- you pronounce me you spell me
- diverted dawn
- you live you empty out existence
- leprosy or earthquake or imperious mimosa
- a choice
implies a funeral
* * *
I will murder that memory
which without mercy offers me
your form your sweat your legs
out of which came fillies
more affectionate than the dawn
all my skeletons have left me
I am flesh in pain
wandering about in search of oblivion
are we confused
like tongue and palate
in the same mouth?
and my suicide is allowing
you to populate me
and overpopulate me
and expell me from myself
* * *
I am a soiled towel
(happy to be so unhappy)
I am what you say I am
watch fur flag in a storm
(indifferent even to indifference)
I am snow that sleeps
snow that kills
(someone else for all the others)
for having lost so much material I am
(polished polished polished)
* * *
You dare
identify
the word "giraffe"
and the animal that pitches in the bush like a boat.
You murder with a word.
You crucify
with a proverb.
You want couch-grass.
You will die tonight:
vengeance of the unexpressed.
* * *
Down he kneels,
But has he any knees?
He experiences all time
Like a vein in a sick man's wrist.
Grass would be a friend
if he could only talk to it.
Anyway, one word is enough he knows
For the sky's shipwreck.
He has peopled himself with flawed mirrors.
* * *
he'd love to have another body.
Might the squirrels sauntering on the grass
fear his lukewarm hands?
Ill does he appraise
the moss and the words upon him.
Tautly, he strives
to live on his own surface.
Sometimes he turns into a clock.
* * *
A book that cries,
a tobacco spittle,
a rabbit skin never in use:
that's all he owns.
He believes he is free
and bums between self and self.
Down in his wind-pipe,
he pitched many a lamp-post:
he knows he has a right to lean.
What if matter were his fall?
* * *
He'd grant old leather is old leather;
and the garden, a shock of hair
over a cemetery.
Like his skin, the hour is treacherous.
He bewarns himself.
In the midst of odds and ends:
hangers, hammers,
fans, tables, caps,
he finds
a scrap of existence.
* * *
A word scratches him and begs for meaning.
He finds most sacred
some red cabbage.
Any dust is stance,
any brook philosophy.
Though the fable is writhing
like woman in heat,
he prefers absence.
He cannot reach.
The rose has digested the nightingale.
* * *
A doubt to rust the body.
He casts himself like a die:
he rolls under the table.
What if her were bu an overcoat
for his skeleton trailing behind him?
How many years has the old hat
replaced his skull?
Non-being is the abuse of being.
He gives the ludicrous a last chance.
* * *
A face becomes a brook.
A park pursues travellers.
The fountain is on sale
to any bidder, even a horse.
A temple wheels away
to avoid too pure a prayer.
A city vanishes:
never will he find walls
to rest within.
He carries on his back
so heavy a kingdom.
* * *
Pickpocket verb.
Verb to be thrown into jail.
What syringe
to inject poetry?
The meekest word cost him an ancient tree,
a newly-born mountain,
three quarters of the moon.
He does justice to insanity.
Verb to pleasure like a woman.
* * *
Why must the day
undo its eve,
autumn summer,
grown years the years agrowing?
Gardens under these
have rotted.
Suns like cast-off
raiment perish
beyond this noontide.
He has no more questions.
There is a must he loves.
* * *
My Russia my Russia
not a pebble for me?
not an ear of corn spelling my name?
not a village
breaking into a run
the moment I say hello?
I am the son of irony
I am the son of doubt
in my poems
I tell of uncreated worlds
I call upon men
all too manuscriptal
fear of living drank my blood
and I am awkward
like a zebra stayed among colts
my Russia my Russia
I promise to be artless on my return
no longer can I stand this bodiless body
nor this anonymous soul
* * *
Earth writes the earth.
The earth sings,
and it is for the moon,
and it is for the wind who does not know its course.
The earth is a hand
creating the earth.
The earth is a voice
speaking of the flower, the pebble, the furrow.
Earth writes man
and sings of the weight of time
and weeps over the forgotten season.
Earth is memory's memorial.
My orange tree my knees displease;
my cascade rails against my bones;
mine between my hear to choose
and a stabbed island stertorous
in my valise, between my history books
and head crammed with throttled memories.
Mucous membraned Word!
Thing that wouldst be human!
In me, civil war.
*
Fresh sighs for sale!
Prime doubts a penny!
Scowls going at a loss!
When I'm sold out I'll go
far from me and these among
be born again:
a mango warm from the bough,
a more than feline kiss,
a few objects without name.
Fresh hopes for sale!
Prime sooth a penny!
- Second Testament, pg. 3
* * *
the universe will roar
I invent a prayer
to beautify you
the universe will bellow
I invent
the cathedral
for your hair
around a mammalian island
the stricken universe will croak
I invent a god
so that after my suicide
you will lick his hands
silence will cover the universe
mystical dragon-fly
- After Me, pg. 15
* * *
- young feathers
- be simple like your armpit
- heavy column
- be natural like the nape of your neck
- words of the mad snake
- be faithful to your skin to your lip
- refusal of the fermenting blue
- be the friend of your native speech
- mosquito with the tiger's bite
- be your eye be your blood
- Be Your Blood, pg. 23
* * *
- heavy stork
- your eye is a sacrilege
- crawling moon
- you pronounce me you spell me
- diverted dawn
- you live you empty out existence
- leprosy or earthquake or imperious mimosa
- a choice
implies a funeral
- A Choice Implies a Funeral, pg. 37
* * *
I will murder that memory
which without mercy offers me
your form your sweat your legs
out of which came fillies
more affectionate than the dawn
all my skeletons have left me
I am flesh in pain
wandering about in search of oblivion
are we confused
like tongue and palate
in the same mouth?
and my suicide is allowing
you to populate me
and overpopulate me
and expell me from myself
- Overpopulated with You, pg. 43
* * *
I am a soiled towel
(happy to be so unhappy)
I am what you say I am
watch fur flag in a storm
(indifferent even to indifference)
I am snow that sleeps
snow that kills
(someone else for all the others)
for having lost so much material I am
(polished polished polished)
- Parentheses, pg. 59
* * *
You dare
identify
the word "giraffe"
and the animal that pitches in the bush like a boat.
You murder with a word.
You crucify
with a proverb.
You want couch-grass.
You will die tonight:
vengeance of the unexpressed.
- The Unexpressed, pg. 61
* * *
Down he kneels,
But has he any knees?
He experiences all time
Like a vein in a sick man's wrist.
Grass would be a friend
if he could only talk to it.
Anyway, one word is enough he knows
For the sky's shipwreck.
He has peopled himself with flawed mirrors.
- The Wasps Will Sting the Cathedrals, pg. 71
* * *
he'd love to have another body.
Might the squirrels sauntering on the grass
fear his lukewarm hands?
Ill does he appraise
the moss and the words upon him.
Tautly, he strives
to live on his own surface.
Sometimes he turns into a clock.
- For Lack of a Soul, pg. 87
* * *
A book that cries,
a tobacco spittle,
a rabbit skin never in use:
that's all he owns.
He believes he is free
and bums between self and self.
Down in his wind-pipe,
he pitched many a lamp-post:
he knows he has a right to lean.
What if matter were his fall?
- The Toad Would Gobble the Moon, pg. 91
* * *
He'd grant old leather is old leather;
and the garden, a shock of hair
over a cemetery.
Like his skin, the hour is treacherous.
He bewarns himself.
In the midst of odds and ends:
hangers, hammers,
fans, tables, caps,
he finds
a scrap of existence.
- Say He'd Treated Himself to Some Sincerity, pg. 107
* * *
A word scratches him and begs for meaning.
He finds most sacred
some red cabbage.
Any dust is stance,
any brook philosophy.
Though the fable is writhing
like woman in heat,
he prefers absence.
He cannot reach.
The rose has digested the nightingale.
- Did the Rose Eat the Nightingale?, pg. 117
* * *
A doubt to rust the body.
He casts himself like a die:
he rolls under the table.
What if her were bu an overcoat
for his skeleton trailing behind him?
How many years has the old hat
replaced his skull?
Non-being is the abuse of being.
He gives the ludicrous a last chance.
- A Nail to Hang the Soul, pg. 121
* * *
A face becomes a brook.
A park pursues travellers.
The fountain is on sale
to any bidder, even a horse.
A temple wheels away
to avoid too pure a prayer.
A city vanishes:
never will he find walls
to rest within.
He carries on his back
so heavy a kingdom.
- A Sidewalk Switches Lanes, pg. 137
* * *
Pickpocket verb.
Verb to be thrown into jail.
What syringe
to inject poetry?
The meekest word cost him an ancient tree,
a newly-born mountain,
three quarters of the moon.
He does justice to insanity.
Verb to pleasure like a woman.
- Hooligan Verb, pg. 147
* * *
Why must the day
undo its eve,
autumn summer,
grown years the years agrowing?
Gardens under these
have rotted.
Suns like cast-off
raiment perish
beyond this noontide.
He has no more questions.
There is a must he loves.
- Why Must the Day, pg. 157
* * *
My Russia my Russia
not a pebble for me?
not an ear of corn spelling my name?
not a village
breaking into a run
the moment I say hello?
I am the son of irony
I am the son of doubt
in my poems
I tell of uncreated worlds
I call upon men
all too manuscriptal
fear of living drank my blood
and I am awkward
like a zebra stayed among colts
my Russia my Russia
I promise to be artless on my return
no longer can I stand this bodiless body
nor this anonymous soul
- Seven Yells for Russia, 1, pg. 167
* * *
Earth writes the earth.
The earth sings,
and it is for the moon,
and it is for the wind who does not know its course.
The earth is a hand
creating the earth.
The earth is a voice
speaking of the flower, the pebble, the furrow.
Earth writes man
and sings of the weight of time
and weeps over the forgotten season.
Earth is memory's memorial.
- Earth Writes the Earth, 1, pg. 179
January 14, 2020
Vidunderlig samling af Bosquets ord
Alain Bosquet aka Anatoliy Bisk var en ukrainsk immigrant, der ligesom så mange andre i hans generation mest skrev på fransk.
Egentlig emigrerede hans forældre til Belgien kort efter at Ukraine blev indlemmet i Sovjetunionen. Og netop denne abrupte start på livet, illusionens tab og krigene i Europa og verdenen er med til at præge hans skrivestil.
Bogen her er som titlen antyder et uddrag sf hans poesi. Der er hovedsageligt forlis på hans 60’er og 70’er tekster og især de sidste del af bogen fokuserer på Guden i forskellige aspekter. Her er tale om især en meget menneskelig Gud, der degraderer, destruerer og ikke er fuldmægtig i sig selv, men bliver det qua sind handlinger.
Bosquet skriver meget smukt og hele hans tilgang til ord er præget af en verden der er i opløsning.
Digtene er korte, moderne og stadig aktuelle i vores samtid.
Alain Bosquet aka Anatoliy Bisk var en ukrainsk immigrant, der ligesom så mange andre i hans generation mest skrev på fransk.
Egentlig emigrerede hans forældre til Belgien kort efter at Ukraine blev indlemmet i Sovjetunionen. Og netop denne abrupte start på livet, illusionens tab og krigene i Europa og verdenen er med til at præge hans skrivestil.
Bogen her er som titlen antyder et uddrag sf hans poesi. Der er hovedsageligt forlis på hans 60’er og 70’er tekster og især de sidste del af bogen fokuserer på Guden i forskellige aspekter. Her er tale om især en meget menneskelig Gud, der degraderer, destruerer og ikke er fuldmægtig i sig selv, men bliver det qua sind handlinger.
Bosquet skriver meget smukt og hele hans tilgang til ord er præget af en verden der er i opløsning.
Digtene er korte, moderne og stadig aktuelle i vores samtid.
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